our veins are busy but my heart's in atrophy
by ASongInMyHead
Summary: Roy knew enough about heroes to be sure that he wasn't one.


Roy returned from the war and found that he had lost himself somewhere in the ruins of the city he left in ashes. He thought he would be relieved to be home, but with the Ishval vets given three months leave, there was nothing to distract him from his thoughts. He stayed home most days, drinking too much and eating too little. He called Maes Hughes and listened to his friend rattle on about how beautiful the engagement ring looked on Gracia's delicate hand.

"How do you do it, Maes?" Roy asked when the other man paused for breath. "How can you act like everything's fine?"

There was a long silence on the other line. "Because I have to," Hughes says simply.

He visited his aunt a couple times but couldn't bear meeting her sharp eyes and knowing that she _knew_ , even if she wasn't the type to beg for secrets.

And he hadn't seen Riza since the day he promised to burn her tattoo.

"When?" she had asked so eagerly, as if she looked forward to it.

"Soon," was what he had said, barely keeping the tremor from his voice.

He read the papers, he knew what they were calling him. The _Hero of Ishval_. Roy knew enough about heroes to be sure that he wasn't one. He had avoided Riza since they returned, not even answering the phone when it rang, in case it was her voice on the other end. She had looked so small and sad kneeling by the grave of the Ishvallan child. Her hands and knees had been filthy from digging, and her dull eyes had made her look decades older than twenty-one. He had felt sick to his bones when he agreed to her grisly request. He'd walked far away and sat with his head in his hands, shaking with rage at Amestris, at the war, at himself, and he remembered the girl with the honey-brown eyes; the girl who had once laughed until she cried at his awful impression of a character from a radio show they'd both liked; the girl who had become a soldier with the highest Ishvallan kill-count of any non-alchemist.

Roy crossed his little kitchen and opened his fridge. It was getting late and he hadn't eaten since the morning. The contents of his refrigerator were pitiful: the end bits of a loaf of bread, a few pieces of wilting lettuce and a nearly finished jar of strawberry jam. He slapped some jam on the sad bits of bread and was about to dig into his pathetic meal when a sharp knock sounded from his front door. He elected to ignore it, but the pounding came again, louder, and accompanied by a muffled voice.

"It's me."

Roy froze. He'd longed to hear her voice for a month but dreaded seeing her face. Steeling himself, he set down his plate and opened the door.

He knew he must look terrible, but Riza truly looked like hell. Her short hair was unwashed and hung in stringy clumps around her face. She'd lost weight, and her eyes were bruised by lack of sleep. But her eyes still burned into his. Before he could say anything, she pushed inside.

"I didn't know you had my address," he said, following her into his own home, and cursed himself for not coming up with something better.

"I got it from the Madam," she replied flatly. "You've been hiding from me."

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, unwilling to lie to her. "I've been a coward."

She does not protest this. Her back is to him, and she trails her fingers over his kitchen counter, eyes lingering on his abandoned bread and jam. He wonders if he's supposed to offer her a drink.

"You promised you'd help me," she murmured.

"I know. I—"

"You promised," she cried, whirling around to face him. "You _owe_ me!"

Her eyes were on fire and Roy opened his mouth but couldn't find any words.

"I can't—I c-can't live with this on my body. You don't—you don't _understand_ ," her face twisted in choking agony. "I didn't want this, _Roy_ , but my father made my body his own. I can feel it, it's like it's eating me from the inside, it's— it's destroying me. I can't have it on my skin or it's going to kill me, Roy. It's going to _fucking kill me_."

The flames in her eyes died and she crumpled to the floor in a mess of massive, gasping sobs. Roy stared at her in horror as his heart pounded in his chest. His belly twisted and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. He knelt beside her and tried to take her hand, but she jerked away, never halting her endless, terrible cries.

"Riza," he breathed softly. "You're right, I can't understand. I'm sorry. I needed… I needed time. I'll keep my promise, I swear. But not now, and not here. We need to go somewhere we won't be found out. Somewhere you can recover without arousing suspicious."

"Where?" she choked, her face buried in her knees.

"Whitburn."

She finally lifted her head at the name of her hometown. Her eyes were swollen from tears and she looked pasty and sick, but her breathing slowed.

"We have another two months of leave," Roy was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. We could go—"

"Tomorrow," she interrupted. Some of the light had returned to her eyes. "We can take the first train."

Roy swallowed and hoped his voice didn't shake. "Alright. We'll leave in the morning."

She took a few shuddering breathes and used the wall to support herself as she rose to her feet. "I should go," her eyes flickered to his face and then away again.

"Stay here," he said softly, failing to hide the plea from his voice. "We'll leave at first light." He reached out his hand again and this time she took it and gripped it so hard that his fingers turned white. It hurt but he didn't want her to ever let go. Her hands had once been so soft, but the war had left them rough with callouses. He met her eyes, and _god_ , she looked so sad, so tired, so horribly ancient.

"I'll be back in the morning," she shook her head slowly. "Goodnight, Major."

"Goodnight, Cadet."

When she left he stumbled to his bed and collapsed fully clothed. He grasped at a pillow, held it tight to his face, and he cried.


End file.
